


Way Down We Go

by BurgundyBlur



Series: These Are Mad Times We Live In [3]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Blood and Violence, Gun Violence, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slow Burn, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-30 13:45:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18316439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BurgundyBlur/pseuds/BurgundyBlur
Summary: Water to simmer down fire, but now the water's boiling.





	Way Down We Go

**Author's Note:**

> I've been MIA for awhile, I honestly have so much stuff typed up as I got into the last chapter of seriously beating Red Dead Redemption 2, and so many of the plots that circled around in my head were too dark for so early on in a chronology. It's mostly due to the ending, but I started the game over again, and my inspiration for writing better/brighter things grew bigger, until I was able to produce this one little episode. I'm still obsessed btw. And still writing. Let me know what you think!

 

 

 

 

 

                John was angry.

                He wasn’t sure why, and there wasn’t exactly a reason, but the irritability festered under his skin like a sickness, causing the warmth emanating from the sky to feel like nothing compared to the heat boiling in his blood.

                Perhaps the temperature of the day had gotten to him before he’d woke up that morning, cooking him in his tent, but as he reclined in his chair under the shade of his tent flap, whittling some discarded piece of wood, he felt like he could breathe fire.

                The knife in his rough hands felt delicious hacking away some innocuous shape into aged and long-dead oak, and John wasn’t quite sure what he was making, but he was entirely sure that he didn’t care.  He just needed to do _something_ and punishing the wood in his hands felt like the best option right now.

                He had forgone a shirt, content with merely his jeans and boots and hat, and he paused in his ministrations to wipe sharply at a bead of sweat that had been tickling a trail down the back of his neck.  _By God, why was it always so hot?_

                The afternoon sun glared down upon their camp with a vengeance, as if its sole purpose was to bake everything that was under its fiery light, and John let his breath out in a sharp huff as he glanced up at the sound of a girl’s giggle, and then another woman’s sharp laugh.

                Jenny and two other girls whose names John had never cared to learn appeared to be making their way down to the lake, several clothes clutched between their dainty fingers.  They were smiling at each other and laughing and giggling at something funny Jenny had apparently said.  Two of the men followed them jovially, no doubt hoping to get a look at them in their underthings. 

                 John pursed his lips as he noticed Amos jogging over to him.

                “Hey there, John.”  The other man greeted, his white smile lighting up his dark and handsome face.  He came to a halt in front of John, his shirt also missing.

                “Amos.”  John nodded his head in greeting, but otherwise turned his attention back to the small figure of whatever it is he was making.  He wasn’t really interested in what Amos had to say.  It would end up being a question of going to the lake to pretend like they weren’t there to take a look at the girls in their underwear, and John would say no, like he always did, because, well… because he was above such things.

                “Wanna come down to the lake with me?”  John pretended like he didn’t catch the eyebrow waggle of the other man out of the corner of his eye, instead carving out a nice big chunk of oak and discarding it to the ground with his knife.

                “I don’t know, Amos, to be honest I don’t much feel like goin’.”  John grumbled. 

                “And why’s that?”  Amos’s hands were on his hips.  _Uh-oh_.  He meant business.

                “I just ate.”  John lied.  “I could get sick.”

                “Yeah, right! You haven’t left this tent all morning.”  Amos shot back, his voice amused. 

                “What, you been stalkin’ me now?”  John’s irritation rose.  Did everyone just keep tabs on him all the time, or what?  How was it that everyone was always aware of his activities?  He kept to himself…mostly.

                “John, my tent is like four feet away from yours.”

                “So, you _have_ been stalkin’ me.”  John flicked another piece of wood to the ground.

                “Can we get back on topic, please?”  Amos’s vexation was tangible.

                “The river, yes…don’t wanna go.”            

                “Man, every time I ask you to go to the river, where the _girls are,_ ” He lowered his voice and cupped his hands like he was talking about secret treasure.  “you always find some sort of excuse not to be there.  Are you that bad at talking to women?”

                “It’s no _excuse_ , Amos,” John threw the knife and the stupid piece of nothing to the ground in frustration.  It was just a stick at this point anyway.  He stood to face the darker man, feeling a familiar boiling in his gut, almost like he did when he was a kid.  “I just- “ John floundered for what to say, gesturing wildly in exasperation, his eyes leaving Amos’s stubborn honey brown to see the party of people headed down to the lake. 

                Jenny and the two girls he didn’t know were passing by some tents a few yards back, followed by two men who had joined recently, Cale and…the one with the brown hair was Billy…maybe.

                If he was being honest, the crisp water of the San Jose River would feel great on a blistering day like this, possibly cooling even his sour temper, but John didn’t feel like going with Amos if all the other man was going to do was gawk at women like he’d never seen them before.

                There was a familiar grumble, the words indistinguishable above the camp noise, then Jenny’s laugh rang out louder than the rest of the group’s, and Arthur and Hosea passed into John’s view.  All the anger that John had felt pent up over the course of the morning left him in a rush.

                The man was striding easily alongside Hosea, his lips pulled back in a relaxed grin that John felt had been absent from the man’s face for a while.  He had no shirt on, his hat casting a shadow on the season’s tan that rippled across broad shoulders that John had seen tackle a man three times his size.  He noticed the bundle of clothes Arthur had with him.

                “John, I just don’t see why we can’t-“

               "Alright, I’ll go with you.”  John cut Amos off, the man blinking stupidly, processing, as John quickly moved around to grab his own change of clothes and a towel.

                “Say what now.”  Amos deadpanned. 

                “I’ll go with you, dammit.”  John glanced to see Amos looking to the group, likely trying to find the reason for John’s sudden change of heart, and John’s heart suddenly beat so fast that he felt it might burst-

                “C’mon, Amos!  John!”  Jenny’s voice was calling, and his gaze flickered to where she was waving them closer.  Everyone’s gaze was on them, and John was hyper aware of the scrutinizing watch of Arthur.  The man was smirking, at what, John could only guess, and he averted his gaze quickly, lest the man’s endlessly considering stare see straight into his soul from where he knelt under his tent’s canopy.

                Then Amos was waving back enthusiastically, yelling, “Oh, we’re comin’, Miss Jenny!  We’ll be _right_ there!” and turning around quickly, muttering and gesturing for John to _hurry up why are you taking so damn long_ , and the other group proceeded without them.  John could feel the precise moment Arthur’s eyes left his back, and the breath of relief left his lungs in a slow sigh of air.

                Not even ten minutes later, despite Amos’s declarations that he was now too elderly to safely enter the river, _haha very funny,_ the two were striding down the large hill that overlooked a small alcove where everyone was setting things up on the sandy shore. 

                The group was scattered about; Amos and John, who were last, got a spot overlooking everyone closer to camp.  To their lower right, Hosea and Arthur were placing towels on the sand a few yards away, a cigarette between Arthur’s tightly clenched teeth.  Jenny and the girls, with their accomplices, Cale and maybe-Billy, were making their own picnic area under the only tree that bordered the bank, closest to the shore, and furthest down the hill.

                The spot was perfect for lazing around, if nothing else, and the little inlet was only about four feet deep at its deepest, something which John didn’t pay mind to.  No need to know how to swim if your feet can touch the bottom, right?  About twenty yards in, the bay tapered off into the main San Jose River, but the current wasn’t a worry from where they were planning to go in.

                As usual, Amos was the first one in the water, running and hollering like a buffoon and jumping in the water in just his black boxer briefs.  The splash soaked all the girls and they shrieked excitedly, diving in after him and splashing back.  Cale and maybe-Billy joined them and as John shed his boots, socks, and pants, the splash fight that had started playfully was now a mini monsoon, each person in the water trying to give as good as they got. 

                John deposited his clothes and took his hat off, discarding it in the pile with his clothes.  He’d cut his hair yesterday morning, with a little ‘help’ from Miss Grimshaw. 

_The woman had snarled and growled over him as he had complained that he didn’t care about his hair, but she would have none of it, and by the end, his hair was trimmed up nicely to where it would stay in place, not too short and not too long, and to his surprise, he found that he liked it.  It was short enough to where it never got in the way, and no brush was necessary to tame any wild locks he no longer had.  It felt good to run his fingers through the now-short and soft, chopped hair._

_When she’d tried to shave his stubble, however, and wouldn’t take no for an answer, he’d nearly called for help; briefly wrestling her with the razor as she bore down on him, the intent to rid him of his facial hair deep in her convicted eyes, when Dutch had walked in, startling them both. Miss Grimshaw’s talons let go of his shoulders, and John bolted out of his chair towards Dutch, backing out of the tent slowly past the much older man, who’s expression couldn’t have been more surprised if someone had told him Hosea was part bat.  His dark eyes kept darting from John to Miss Grimshaw, like he’d caught them doing something peculiar_ like wrestling with a razor _._

_“Everything… all right in here?”  Dutch’s charming voice, confused._

_“Yes, yes, Dutch.”  Miss Grimshaw panted, flustered.   She blew a stray hair out of her face that had escaped her messy bun. “Just giving the boy a haircut.  He needed it.”  Her bony fingers wielded the razor blade, putting John on edge._

_“Uh huh, I’m sure he did, Miss Grimshaw, and it looks fantastic, if I do say so myself,”  The taller outlaw moved in front of John slowly, hiding him from view, his voice like silk, and John took the opportunity to exit the tent quickly.  “But I’m thinkin’ it’s time we had another one of our ‘what’s appropriate an’ what’s not’ talks…”_

               John had escaped before any damage was done to his person, but that was the last time he let Grimshaw anywhere near him with anything sharp, let alone his _head_.

               John yanked the shirt up and over his skull in one swift motion and threw it to the ground, his eyes flicking over to Arthur’s spot almost unconsciously. 

               Green eyes burned fire into John’s, and the younger man looked away, his face burning with the blush he knew was there.

_Arthur, ever the watcher-_

                John’s right hand scratched the back of his head awkwardly, but he shook it off, like he did everything else.  He ignored the fluttering that began from somewhere in his stomach, the weird fluttering he’d come to associate with interactions with Arthur, and he made his way after Amos, running in to splash in the water like a loose cannonball, sending a tidal wave of water crashing over everyone.  The girls squealed in delight at his entrance, and John let out a whoop of laughter, only to get hit in the face with a wave directed from Cale, leaving him sputtering.

                Out of all of them, Amos’s hooting and hollering was the loudest that day.

 

* * *

 

               

 

                They’d left the river little before sunset, John having used the sun’s rays to dry himself, and accidentally falling asleep in the process. 

Amazingly, it seemed Amos had managed to roll him over at some point, so he didn’t burn, and for that, John was grateful.  A bad sunburn could spell trouble for days.  The other man had apparently gotten the time he wanted with Jenny, and the maybe-Billy and Cale had gone off somewhere with the other two girls.

                Amos told John that Hosea and Arthur had left together a little while before them.

                “Did you kiss her?”  John was asking, his voice thick with sleep as he tiredly marched up the hill after Amos, his feet dragging groggily in the dirt.  He cleared his throat.

                “Naw, man.”  Amos’s reply was pensive.  “A girl like that…a girl like that needs to be courted.”

                “And what do you know about courting, _young man_.”  John teased.

                “More than you do, apparently.”  Amos said knowingly, and when he turned around to view John, his expression was smug.  John raised an eyebrow.

                “Oh?  Does someone know something?”  John asked playfully.

                “Just a hunch, really, nothing more.”  Amos twisted back around to watch his step, and John frowned, frustration and irritation bubbling faintly. 

                “You’re really not gonna tell me, are ya’.”

                “Nope.”

 

* * *

 

               

 

 

                Much later that night, after crickets had begun their chirping, and the bullfrogs had joined with a nightingale to perform a midnight concert, John found himself desperately needing to pee.

                He woke up out of a dream he didn’t even remember, and tore out of his tent, racing in his under wear to pee at a tree outside of camp, lest his bladder explode.  He found the right tree in the dark, thankfully, and hurried and relieved himself, sighing as his bladder shrank in size.  _All that damned whisky-_

                John finished, realizing that it was so late, that nobody was even awake.  He had never seen the camp this quiet before, not even as a boy.  The fires had all but dwindled down into ashes, remnants of partying, and emptied beer bottles covering the area like a net of litter.  However, even amidst, the partying, it seemed nobody had been left out in the cold.  Everyone had made it to their own tent, and over half of them were closed.

                He tiptoed along the ground back to bed, stealthy as he could, passing so close to Arthur’s tent, which was closed, _and had a light on inside-_

                 John paused.

                 He could hear something from within.  The sound was familiar, wet even.  Sounds you only hear late nights in boys’ camps in the hot and sweaty summer when you’re young, and John couldn’t look, he shouldn’t look, but he’s moving anyway, his fingers coming to rest on the canvas of the tent like someone else is controlling him, and he’s peering in between the folds in the fabric and-----time has frozen. 

                Arthur is on his knees, no shirt; his hunter green boxer briefs are pooled around his ankles, and rock-hard abs are bathed in the warm orange glow of the low-flame lantern he’s got.  His face is half hidden in shadow, but there’re no mistaking the twist of pleasure across his handsome visage.

                His hand is clutched firmly around something that would…that would---- _spear me through like a boar._   John’s cock twitched suddenly as the thought crossed his mind, and he blushed at the implications of his own feelings.

                He watched, mesmerized, as Arthur’s hand moved up and down his length quickly, his breath coming in short gasps that were audible to John, even with the wind blowing ever so lightly, tossing the tent fabric around gently.  Arthur’s hands worked hard during the daytime, rough with the work of each passing day as outlaws on the run, and John shivered as he imagined the callousness of the older man’s hand. 

                John palmed his own stirring erection, the visual feast of Arthur touching himself so intimately putting him into a trance.  He nearly whined as Arthur stroked himself with two fingers, just behind the head, slowly, up and down, along the entire length and back, then sped up again, and then slowed himself down again.  John imagined what it would feel like, to be played with, for Arthur-

                 John froze, his own hand leaving his member pulsing.  He shouldn’t be doing this.  He couldn’t be doing this.  People were lynched for things like this.  _Unnatural things, unnatural feelings-_   John hobbled back to his tent quietly, his own erection and memories the only tale of what he’d just witnessed.

               He lay awake for a long time before he was able to fall back asleep again.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

              The following morning, John woke up covered in his own body fluid.

              He had a strange dream about someone in the dark, someone touching him.  Hands had been everywhere, stirring him, stroking him, teasing him.  He was brought to the edge of an orgasm and held there, so that when his orgasm did come, slowly, his legs quaked from it.

              He’d woken up shakily and wiped himself off with the towel he’d used the day before at the river.  John sighed, running a hand through his short hair.

              It’d been a while since he’d had a dream like that. 

              The cowboy stood up, unsteadily pulling fresh clothes and boots on, after rolling up his sleeping bag, of course, and trudged out to the water basin that resided just outside of his tent.

              The sun had long since risen, and, it beat down just as fiercely as it did the day before, but John found the heat strangely bearable this time.  Some of the resentment he’d felt from the day before had faded away into nothing, and John had a feeling that it was somehow tied to the dream he’d had.

              He washed his face in the water as per his usual morning routine, and it felt _great._  

              The day progressed on, and John found that every time he laid eyes upon Arthur, he would recall what he’d seen the previous midnight, through a fold in a tent.  Then he’d recall the dream, and this time, it would be Arthur’s hands on him, the older outlaw’s hands becoming the unseen hands, and John would feel a familiar tightening in his pants, and have to hurry and do something else to _fucking distract himself from these thoughts-_

              Mid-day swung around shortly after John had finished chopping the night’s firewood, sweat running down his back and causing his shirt to stick to his skin uncomfortably; Dutch called him, Bill, Javier, and _of course_ Arthur, to help Hosea escort a wagon full of ammunition back to camp.

              Some caravan full of weapons and ammo for them was being toted from Fort Mercer to somewhere near Blackwater; John wasn’t too sure on the specifics, other than Dutch wanted them to take it from them.

              “Arms for the fight, cowboys!  The fight, for _freedom!”_   He’d cried passionately.

              The mission went fine, as usual, and the soldiers guarding the wagon were dispatched easily by Javier and Bill, while Arthur, Hosea, and John brought up the rear guard.  In fact, other than John’s thoughts, nothing was out of the ordinary.

              Until the law came bearing down on them somewhere around Hanngian’s Stead on their way back.

              Hosea, in charge of the wagon, shouted for formation.  Bill and Javier on both sides, and John and Arthur in the back. 

              The gun fight was quick, and taken care of easily, but, still, more continued to come in over the hills, military reinforcements pouring over the mounds of earth on their rescue of the stolen wagon.

              Big John’s nostrils blew noisily as he raced behind the thundering coach, the shire horses pulling it driven to a hurried frenzy at the pace Hosea had set for them.  All around them, bullets flew, some finding their homes in the side of the cart, which thankfully, didn’t contain dynamite.  Bill had checked.

               John fired at a red-haired man that pursued him on a black and white mare, and his pistol bullet found a home in the man’s neck.  The officer gave a sickening gurgle and fell off his mount, his left foot caught in the stirrups, ensuring that if the bullet didn’t kill him, the drag from the horse would.

               To his right, Arthur pulled out his sawed-off shotgun and sunk a slug into a mean-faced man who was galloping alongside him in a dusty palomino.  The shell was so big, it blew straight through the man’s body and dipped into the one that had been riding in behind him, causing the man to fall off his horse with a howl as guts exploded everywhere in a shower of red.

               They tore down the road, fighting their way, mud and gunpowder, before Arthur yelled to John, his voice harsh above the sound of the shooting and hoofbeats and wagon wheels, “We gotta lead them away!  We can’t lead ‘em back to camp!” 

                A bullet whizzed right past John’s face as he shouted back at Arthur, “You lead, and I’ll follow!” 

                Arthur’s face was granite and iron, and he urged Grey Wind right suddenly; Big John bounded after him at the behest of John, wheeling so sharply that the horse let out a loud whinny in protest. 

               “There, boy.”  John soothed, urging the brown charger into a fierce gallop behind Arthur’s Hungarian Half-bred mare.  Her tail waved through the air like a grey war banner, and together, Arthur and John rode away from the wagon like their horses had wings, shooting and drawing the fire away from Hosea and the ammunition they needed back at camp.

                They raced across the countryside towards the northeast, trading bullets back and forth as they fought to outpace the pursuing lawmen.  Trees and bushes were a blur as John pushed Big John harder than he ever had before as he struggled to keep pace with Grey Wind, the great horse’s stride eating up the ground in front of her hooves.

                 It wasn’t long before the saddle began rubbing at John’s legs, and he shifted painfully on the leather seat.  It was a long time, however, before John saw the last of any law, and still they rode.  They rode past houses and small towns and ranches that held more sheep than John had ever seen before.  They passed two stone faced men astride chestnut horses that didn’t acknowledge the two outlaws riding by, so John and Arthur treated them the same, keeping eyes on them until they were well out of range.

                They were no longer in any immediate danger, Arthur had made it clear, but they were still at risk of someone tracking them down.  They had just intercepted a wagon fully loaded with weapons bound for Blackwater; that was bound to cause an uproar.

                Thusly, the pair continued, the day stretching on as they put as much ground as they could between them and the military, hoping to leave their tracks buried in the foothills.

                The day drifted into night, and just before the sun began to sink behind the grey vale of clouds on the horizon, Arthur conceded that they’d gone far enough.  The older outlaw chose a spot somewhere east of Twin Rocks, the small hills giving them just the cover they needed should anyone come looking for them.

                Setting up camp was difficult, as when John climbed down off of his horse, he felt like an ox had kicked him in both thighs.  He moved about stiffly, the heat not getting to him so much as the pain in his back and legs.  He stopped to stretch a little bit, and that eased some of the tension he felt, but not by much.  He’s never ridden that hard.  Never.  Neither has Big John.

               When John had taken the saddle off the seal brown animal, and begun to groom him, the poor stallion was covered in a thick coating of salt from where he’d sweat during their flight to safety.

               “I’m sorry, boy.”  John murmured to the animal that had carried him through most of his life.  He worked his horsehair brush through a rough patch of sweat just below his whithers, smoothing the hair there until it was soft and shiny.  Big John whickered appreciatively, and John smiled.  God, he loved his horse, lame as it was.  His big ole friend.

                Then he’d fed the animal an apple he’d carried on him, and helped Arthur start the fire, cooking some venison he’d caught a few days ago.  The meat looked good.  Really, it did.  Arthur refused to eat it, examining the raw meat suspiciously, sniffing it, then handing it back to John and settling for a can of beans he pulled out of his own satchel.  John had shrugged it off and ate the now cooked meat happily.

                The bedroll John unpacked had never looked so inviting, and as he laid atop it, stretched out under the stars, still clad in his dirty clothes, sans boots, he was so tired, he felt like he could sleep for a hundred years.

                _Hosea always joked about how he could be Rip Van Winkle, with how much he slept.  Could sleep through a damn stampede._

                Arthur’s voice drifted lazily from his spot by the fire, the scent of his tobacco burning filling John’s nose with a familiar and comforting scent.

                “I’ll keep first watch, Marston.”  That was all John heard before he drifted off to sweet, black slumber.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

                When Arthur nudged John to wake for his shift for watch, the younger cowboy couldn’t move.

                It was still dark out, and at first, he was, perplexed; as soon as he brought his leg up to aid him in sitting, it felt like someone had inserted a hot poker iron into the tendons of his thigh.  John couldn’t stop the cry of pain that escaped him as he laid back down unwillingly.  The ache in his muscles increased as he moved his heels or lower body, and as the pain came again, sharp and clawing, grasping his muscles like a vice, he choked back another whimper.

                “What is it, lil’ John.”  Arthur was asking him, and he was kneeling over the younger man, concern on his face.  He was scanning John’s body, much to the younger outlaw’s embarrassment.  “Ya been shot?”

                “N-no, Arthur, I’m just…I can’t move.”  John stammered out, his voice hoarse and cracking.  He tried to rise to his elbows again, but Arthur pushed him back to the ground, earning him a resentful hiss.  “My legs feel like they’re made of stone.”

                “You sure, ya ain’t shot?”  Arthur asked again anxiously, scratching the scruff of his trimmed stubble, as he contemplated the pained look on John’s face.

                “Yeah I’m sure, dammit.”  John groaned, clutching at his right leg as a cramp wreaked havoc on the muscles there.  “I think we rode too hard last night.  My muscles are so tight-“

                “Feels like a vice?”  Arthur interrupted. 

                “Exactly.”

                “Roll over and take your pants off.”  Arthur moved away and out of sight.

                “Take off my- _what?_ ”

                “Your pants, take ‘em off.”  The reply was business like, and Arthur moved back into view as John struggled out of his pants.  The muscles in his legs screamed at him, and some minutes later, and with no small difficulty, John’s pants were off and on the ground next to him.

                “This might not be the weirdest thing I’ve ever done, but it’s coming close to one of them.”  John’s voice was meant to be playful, but it came out more nervous than anything, and the corner of Arthur’s mouth twitched.  A coyote bayed in the distance, and the low flame of the campfire crackled as the dying embers twisted up and away into the night sky.

                “Roll on your stomach.”

                John obeyed, saying nothing, and there was the sound of the bottle being opened, then hands being rubbed together.  The ambience of the night was loud, the crickets contributing to the noise with no small effort, but over it all, the sound of Arthur’s hands rubbing together was crisp and deafening.  The weight of Arthur’s eyes on his nearly naked-self set his skin ablaze.  Not knowing what to do with his hands, he pillowed them beneath his side-turned head, trying in vain to see Arthur out of the corner of his eye.

                When the blonde cowboy’s hands made contact with his lower right calf, John inhaled sharply, the warm contact surprising him, but Arthur’s hands were firm, and massaged oil into him that smelled faintly of flowers.

                “What is it?”  John groaned as Arthur worked out a knot in the muscles he currently had his hands on.

                “English Mace.”  Arthur grunted out.  “Treated with oil.”

                As Arthur worked his way up John’s right leg, kneading and rubbing the muscle and skin there, John’s thoughts flew to remembrances of the previous night, and a lantern lit in a forbidden tent, and he swallowed around the memory of hands, so many hands on his flesh--- _Dream Arthur’s eyes had been so intense, like fresh spring grass after the long dark of winter, staring straight into him, devouring all he was in one sweep of his ever-observant gaze.  He felt naked and bare as the day he was born in that gaze…as clear as water, and light as air._

                He became increasingly aware of his arousal stirring, and the feeling of Arthur’s hands on his leg was _exquisitely sinful_ , _his hands were every bit of rough John thought they would be,_ and not helping in the slightest towards his…problem.

                John let out a groan as Arthur rubbed a particularly sore spot in the center of his right thigh, and the relief that spread after the area was massaged sent tiny electric tingles straight to John’s groin.

                He squirmed a bit, struggling to right himself, but he only succeeded in grinding an agonizingly short amount against his bedroll, _the feeling of Arthur’s hands was distracting, so distracting_ , and there was a gasp that escaped his lips as the older outlaw switched to his left leg, rubbing the sore spots, and moving along.  Everything he touched and rubbed turned from aching sore to pleasurable relief as Arthur rubbed out discomfort with experienced and deft fingers, while beneath him, John struggled not to grind his hips into the blanket he laid on.

                Despite his now pulsing erection, John began to grow drowsy as Arthur continued to knead the lower half of his body in an almost rhythmic pattern.  The other man’s touch was heaven, and though there was a small voice in the back of John’s head telling him this was not okay, the voice was so tiny, it might as well have been a whisper on the wind, miles away.  John relaxed into the sound of the other man’s breathing, his legs pliant under Arthur’s wonderous hands.

                “Go to sleep, John.”  Arthur’s voice was low, husky velvet on a moonless night, his voice somewhere above the small of John’s back.  John ground his hips once against the ground unconsciously, eyes shut, his breath hitching in his throat, before he caught himself, his fists tightening in the sheets in his effort not to move.

If Arthur noticed anything peculiar about the way John was moving, he gave no indication, but that didnt mean Arthur wasn't filing it away for later. Arthur was _the observer_

                Arthur rubbed his legs out for a good long while, ensuring that no remaining pain would be lingering come morning, before John fell asleep on his stomach, hard as ever.

                If he didn’t dream about this, it would be a miracle.

 

 

 

 

                John never remembered falling asleep, but he jolted up with a start, his muscles screaming in protest at the sudden movement.

                The sun had yet to rise, but John could see that the sky was beginning to lighten with its arrival, turning into subtle hues of slate gray and murky blue.  His gaze drifted to Arthur, who…was fast asleep. 

                The older cowboy’s back was rested against Grey Wind’s saddle, which currently lay on the ground.  His hat was tipped low over his eyes, but John didn’t have to see them to know they were closed in slumber.  A long leg was propped up in front of him while the other was stretched out, and his silver and black pistol was clutched tightly in his right hand.

“Arthur-“  John began, rising to his feet and beginning to reach for the man.

                Arthur woke with a start, astonishing John, who leaned back out of reflex as Arthur rose to his feet quickly, searching for the sudden cause of noise, his eyes wild.  He settled on John upon seeing no danger, and then to the sky, thankfully holstering his pistol.

                “Let’s head back.”  Arthur snapped, his good mood from the night before having clearly evaporated due to lack of sleep.

                John sighed as they robotically packed up camp and rode out.

               Neither of them was able to keep up a quick pace, especially not with John leading the two back and Arthur trailing behind tiredly on Grey Wind for once.  Arthur’s…attentions from the night before had helped ease most of the tension out of John’s body, but his tension came from something else.  A feeling that he was unfamiliar with but was growing quickly acquainted to, namely when he was with Arthur.

              The memory of Arthur’s hands on his skin burned, and in the saddle, he stirred, shifting out of a different kind of discomfort.  _Why Arthur, why?  Of all people!_

              The older man lagged behind Big John by a couple of yards, the gray mare keeping up easily with the brown stallion, despite her own rider’s inattentiveness.  Arthur was clearly, upon John’s glance, struggling to keep from nodding off as they rode, his head jerking every so often in an attempt to remain vigilant.

                Nightfall, Amos was the watch on the border of the camp this time, and he called out to John as he and Arthur rode in.

                “John!  Arthur!  We was hopin’ ya’ll had made it out okay.”  The man strode up to Big John, the tall horse nickering his greeting in a low rumble.  Grey Wind did the same, and Arthur climbed down from the horse, stumbling slightly, his lids heavy with sleep, or lack thereof.  John climbed down as well, coming to stand beside Amos as the other man shook his hand, enthusiastically, clearly glad he’d made it home safely.

               “Amos, hey, did everyone else make it back okay?”  Arthur blurted, clearly eager to know the fate of the rest of the gang that was on the mission.

               “Yeah, everyone’s back, you two are the last one’s in.”  Arthur’s relief was palpable.

              “My boys!  I’m so glad to see you home safe!”  Dutch’s voice boomed in greeting, striding towards them from his tent.  He clapped a hand on John’s back, congratulating him upon reaching them, his face so very warm and full of joy.

              “Well done! This was _exactly_ what we needed!  And I heard you two drew them away from Hosea and the rest, smart thinking on your part, eh, John?”

              “Arthur’s idea.”

               “What’s that, my boy?” 

               “It was Arthur’s idea to draw them off.”

               Dutch’s dark eyes lit up, his eyes moving to the older blonde cowboy as he moved to pull the exhausted man in a somewhat stiff hug.  “Of _course,_ it was!  You never disappoint me, Arthur Morgan.”  His gaze was loving, like a father congratulating his children.  “You’re right there with him, Mr. Marston.  Good job.”

               The two older men stumbled off and made their way to their respective tents, Arthur muttering something about sleep, whilst John was left standing there with Big John and Amos, his heart swelling with so much pride he felt he would burst.

              “How was it?”  Amos moved to help John unsaddle Big John, slipping the stallion’s halter on with practiced fingers while he slipped the bridle off underneath.  John uncinched the saddle and removed it, and the blanket.

              “It was fine, until the law showed up on the way back.  Didn’t even see ‘em comin’.”  John and Amos labored to groom all of the salty sweat out of Big John’s brown coat, the horse bobbing his great head up and down in enjoyment.

               Amos nodded his head.  “Mhm, that’s what Hosea told us.  Turns out, the fort near Blackwater had sent out reinforcements to meet the wagon at a fixed point somewhere between.”

             “No kidding, huh?”  John huffed, turning to remove Grey Wind’s tack as well while Amos finished up with Big John.  “Guess that explains why there were so many men comin’ after us.”

              “Yup.”

             John was grooming out a final tangle in Grey Wind’s mane when Amos broke the silence again by asking, “So, how was it?”

               “I thought I just told you.”  John replied, yawning.  He was exhausted.

              “Yeah, you told me ‘bout the gunfight, but how was spending a night in the desert with Arthur?”  Amos’s tone was light, but there was some underlying meaning in his words that John couldn’t decipher.  “I don’t imagine ya’ll got on so well.”

             “We, uh, got on just fine.”  John stated simply.  He kept his face straight forward, still combing the same spot on Grey Wind’s mane that he’d already detangled over and over again, determined to hide his developing blush from the other man. 

             “Did you?  That’s a surprising relief.”  Amos sounded impressed.

             “Yeah, no kidding.”  John laughed nervously.  He finished brushing Grey Wind’s mane and placed the brush with the rest of her things, moving in the direction of his tent, ready to get away from Amos and this damned _conversation_ as quick as possible.

             “Well, g’night, Amos.”  John called over his shoulder, the other man surprised at his sudden departure.

              Amos said something, then, but by the time it was heard, John was too far away to really have any idea what his words had been.  Nor did he care.  He needed to get to bed before he dropped here in the middle of camp.

               _Pull a regular ole’ Rip Van Winkle-sleep for a hundred years._

               

                John would recall his dream in the morning as he woke up so rigid that his hands flew to his cock before his eyes were even open, jerking like his life depended on it, his mouth open in a silent scream as he came _hard_.

_He had been propped in a chair astride Arthur, his naked back to the older man’s chest, his wrists bound together and up behind the taller man’s neck.  Images of large, calloused hands, drifting across his body, teasing, wandering, tantalizing, pinching, both burning a trail of fire everywhere  on John’s skin as they traveled._

_John had squirmed under Arthur’s attentions, twisting to no avail, and the dream lasted for what seemed like hours as John’s body was played with by an unrelenting and sadistic Arthur.  His skilled hands kept John deliciously tortured, the younger man’s head lolling on the older man’s shoulder as he kept John’s sensitive flesh on edge with nimble fingers that knew all the right places to touch; all the places that made John gasp with delight, moan embarrassingly in desire, and reduce him to a mumbling mess of gibberish as the blonde outlaw slowly drove him out of his mind._

_Arthur smirked cockily down at him as he obliged the writhing, mewling younger gunslinger. No touch was ever enough, and there wasn’t enough leverage to thrust into any touch he was given; all John could do was beg for more like some wonton whore, his body alight with sensations pulling him this way and that. Arthur's gaze followed him no matter what, watching the way his digits plucked John’s strings like a guitar, watching, always watching-_

                John opened his eyes, and laid in his bedroll, soaked, staring at the ceiling.  He didn’t feel like his limbs would cooperate if he wanted them to, and frankly he was content with lying there for a moment, his heart still racing as the endorphins of his orgasm began fading away.

_Goddamn Arthur Morgan._


End file.
